


The Alphabet Affair - E

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6457801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the MFUWSS Beta challenge</p><p>Prompts: Elegant and Expatriate!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alphabet Affair - E

Illya trudged up the last staircase to his apartment. He would have taken the elevator, but with as slow as it always ran, it was faster this way. Not bothering to conceal his yawn, he searched for his keys and then froze at the sound of approaching footsteps. At this time of the night, it wasn’t likely that it was one of his neighbors.

He dropped the keys back into his pocket and let his hand move closer to his gun. The owner of the footsteps came into view and Illya relaxed slightly.

Grigory Novogrotsky bent over, hands on his knees, and panted from exertion. He looked up at Illya and offered a slight smile. “Why… can’t… you… live on a…. lower floor?”

“It’s only five flights, Grigory. Perhaps the question should be, why are you in such bad shape that five floors is too much for you?” Illya grabbed his keys, now reassured that he wasn’t about to be jumped by a THRUSH assassin. “Or perhaps and even better question is, why are you here?”

“I wanted to find out how your date went.”

Illya opened the door and held up a hand. Quickly, he stepped inside to disable the alarm and then let Grigory come in. “It wasn’t a date. I told you I was working.”   He didn’t bother to reset the alarm as he fully intended to escort Grigory immediately out.

“Yes, but we never discussed the nature of such work.” Grigory headed for Illya’s kitchen and Illya sighed. He had a bad feeling about this.

“Grigory, please. I am very tired. Might we not discuss this at another time?”

“Ah, you wish to be secretive about your assignation.” Grigory walked to Illya’s freezer and rooted around in it until he found a frosted bottle. Without asking, he opened it and poured out two glasses and carried them to Illya’s couch. He plopped down without spilling a drop.

“I wish to go to bed, Grigory, not stay up all night drinking with you. Unlike some people in this room, I have to get up and go to work in the morning.”

Illya massaged a temple, feeling weary to his core. Napoleon and he had spent the entire night combing the files, but neither could find that slip of paper again. It got to the point that Illya wondered if he’d even seen it or just imagined the whole thing. His mind wandered back to earlier in the evening.

                                                            ****

“Hey, Illya?”

“Yes?”

“You want a pillow?”

It wasn’t until that point that Illya realized he’d drifted off. He sat up and shook his head. “Forgive me, Napoleon, I didn’t mean to.”

“No apologies. It’s late. You’re welcome to my guest room.”

Illya smiled tightly. “And have people talk when I show up to work in the same outfit I wore the day before?” He stretched and then stood. “It’s temping, but, no, I will find my way home.”

“You want some more coffee before you go?” There was something about Napoleon’s tone that made Illya hesitate for just a moment.

“Thank you for the dinner. Perhaps we will have more success tomorrow.” He looked around at the file and paper strewn living room. “Do you need a hand?”

                                                *****

Grigory held out a glass to Illya, startling Illya from his memory. He took it as Grigory murmured. “It is not my fault that work is so hard to come by here. They promise so much but deliver little.”

“Then go back home, Grigory. I’m sure Mother Russia would be waiting with open arms.”

“And a jail cell. I am an expatriate like yourself. For us, there is no going back.” He raised his glass and downed the contents. Hesitantly, Illya followed suit. Instantly, the glasses were filled again.

Grigory didn’t know Illya as well as he thought he did. Illya could go back to Russia whenever he chose. It was just these days, he preferred to stay in New York. The city had gotten under his skin now. Or perhaps Napoleon had.

“So, tell me about the man you ditched me for.” He tipped the glass up and drained it.

“There’s nothing to tell. Something came up and I had to work late.”

“Something came up?” Grigory laughed as he poured another round of drinks for them. “Such an elegant way to put it.” He drank and re filled his glass.

“Don’t be crude, Grigory. Napoleon is my coworker, nothing more.”

“Ah, he’s French?” He drank again.

“Only in temperament.”

“Do you need more?”

“I suppose not.” Illya gestured to the front door. “Please, Grigory, I am very tired.”

Grigory stood up, swaying in place. “Perhaps I drank the last one a bit too fast.”

Illya shook his head and sighed. “Perhaps you’d best spend the night on my couch.”

Grigory giggled then and sat back down with a plop. “Perhaps I should.”

“I’ll just take this.” Illya grabbed the vodka bottle and carried it back to the refrigerator.

“You are a cruel host, Illya Nichovetch.” Grigory pulled off his shirt and then began a mighty struggle with his belt buckle.

“Better that than a pall bearer at your funeral.” Illya went into his room and found an extra pillow and blanket.

“You should never trust Polish vodka,” Grigory muttered.

“Among other things.” Illya undid the stubborn belt buckle and undid the zipper. Grigory hitched up his hips up off the couch at that moment, knocking Illya in the nose. Then Illya suddenly heard a voice behind him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He turned and Napoleon was standing there.

 

 

 


End file.
